


The New World

by panfremas



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Female Friendship, Friendship, Hotels, Introspection, Masturbation, Masturbation in Bathroom, Masturbation in Shower, Multi, Nudity, Sex Magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:41:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28972992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panfremas/pseuds/panfremas
Summary: Set 2-3 years after the epilogue, in ca. 2019, Ginny has joined Hermione and Luna on a mission to investigate a muggle professor who may just have uncovered the Wizarding World. Along the way, she'll rediscover parts of her sexuality and fall in love with the mysterious muggle woman, all while reconnecting in intimate ways with the two best friends that defined her adolescence. Tags reflect completed work/relationships reflect eventual work.
Relationships: Ginny Weasley/Original Female Character(s), Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Luna Lovegood/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Luna Lovegood/Ginny Weasley
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	1. The Spell

**Author's Note:**

> Well I am just writing up a storm lately... This is my first attempt at a really narrative work, but it will still be explicit, just I'd say the plot matters more than my usual work. As the summary says, it's about 2 years after the epilogue. Ginny's kids are all at Hogwarts now, and she's in a bit of a rut. On the way to New York City to meet a professor who's made some wild discoveries, she reflects on that rut and the sexual spell that typifies it.

To hear Hermione tell it, taking the eight-hour flight from London to New York, when they could have apparated there in seconds, made perfect sense.

“When we get there, we may have to make someone feel very much out of her comfort zone,” she’d explained as they sat in the terminal. “It’s only fair that we go out of our comfort zone as well.”

Five hours in and somewhere over Greenland, Hermione had fallen asleep midway through her second muggle book and Ginny felt that her devotion to that logic was misplaced.

Luna was the lucky one — she’d been gallivanting around the Americas since soon after leaving Hogwarts, coaxing creatures out of their caves and hideaways, sending word of her discoveries on parchments sprinkled with glitter. She didn’t have to fly on a bleeding airplane. She got to meet them there.

Ginny supposed she was just worried, and peeved that she hadn’t fallen asleep because of it. Not worried about the plane, of course. Hermione assured her it was completely safe, and even if it proved not to be, they could just apparate out and give the crash investigators a real quandary.

She wasn’t even worried about James, Albus and Lily. They were all at Hogwarts now. Albus would protect Lily. James would protect Albus. And James, well James didn’t need protecting anymore — hard as it was for Ginny to jell her baby boy with the mischievous but sweet teenager who returned home for summers and Christmas. 

To be sure, she was excited for the trip, despite the travel arrangements. Luna was her oldest friend, and while her field letters were something, it would be a treat to spend time with the woman again after so many years of fleeting, irregular visits.

She saw Hermione often, of course, but it had been a long time since they’d spent extended time or more than a day together, with or without their husbands — not since all those holidays when the kids were little. More than that, it was invigorating, intoxicating even, to see Hermione this excited. It was like when Hermione had found a particularly good book, or like the Dumbledore’s Army Days, or like the teenage nights they had spent … experimenting during sweaty summers at The Burrow.

Ginny shook her head and blinked out of the memory. 

Even if the excitement was purely academic, the spark in Hermione’s eyes explaining all of it was contagious: A professor, a medievalist of some small renown, had been publishing papers, papers that had drawn the Ministry’s attention. They were in obscure journals, and those academics that had read them had dismissed her conclusions: too much reliance on too few old documents; too much acceptance of too reliable a scribe. 

Plus, what she was suggesting was insane — wasn’t it? A massive community of something like druids, a religion, almost, operating all across medieval Britain parallel to the events of recorded history, right under everybody’s nose? Some hybrid of alchemy and rituals and spells? Magic? Poppycock.

Except the Ministry knew better than the incredulous peer reviewers. This professor — Margot Hargrave, a Columbia historian still fighting for tenure — was right. She’d managed to uncover the Wizarding World, even if she thought it was something of the distant past. 

Hermione’s mission was direct from the Minister for Magic to his most trusted deputy. Give the job to an auror squad and you get no answers and an obliviated muggle. Give the job to Hermione Weasley-Granger, and you just might learn something.

Hermione, she’d explained in recruiting Ginny, was instead to discern who this person was — an observant and lucky muggle; a lunatic; a disenchanted, hidden wizard intent on breaking the rules; or an uneducated magical person who had slipped through the American system’s ample cracks. (And on that note, Kingsley had said, no need to let the Americans know; this was best handled with the ancient tact of the British wizardry.)

If she was a indeed a muggle, they were to engage her under the guise of fellow muggle researchers from Britain. If, after all this, she was deemed safe, Kingsley had, with much hand-wringing, approved Hermione to introduce this woman to the magical world she had “discovered,” albeit in its present form. Hermione, it had become clearer as her career advanced, wanted a world of magical-muggle cooperation and coexistence one day, if not in her own lifetime. This could be a logical first step toward the muggle-born witch’s dream, but Kingsley was still worried.

Hermione was less concerned — she was pretty sure this was a muggle woman and not a squib, and as she knew by virtue of her upbringing, muggles encountered magic with far less fear than wizards expected, at least when that introduction was done right. 

But at Kingsley’s insistence, she promised to take some protection. Of course, if her security was also two of her best friends, with whom she hadn’t had a chance to properly catch up in years, that was just a bonus. Clearly, the women were qualified. Winning the Wizarding World’s greatest war gave certain members of her generation carte blanche when it came to handling themselves.

Ginny had to admit, it was exciting. Even if she hadn’t been too excited for old scraps of parchment, or at least not to Hermione’s extent, the prospect of being part of history yet again stroked her ego — shameful as it was — in a way that was even a bit arousing. 

Missions and secrets. Covert activity. Surveilling, interviewing and, if it came down to it, protecting — it all brought her back to the DA days and the War, when everything was new and exciting, when the specter of their total destruction meant they lived each day like it could be their last. When they were all in close quarters, and her heart pounded in her chest whether it was from worrying about Harry or rampantly wanking to fantasies of his body intertwined with hers.

Ginny shook her head and blinked out of the memory.

So she wasn’t worried about the plane, or her kids, or even the mission. 

She was worried about having to go back to her life when it was over; worried she wouldn’t be able to.

It was the kind of excitement she seldom felt nowadays. She’d felt it when she and Harry had first married, when everything was new again and she finally had him to herself. But that had faded when the children arrived and hadn’t returned even now the youngest, her baby girl, had left for Hogwarts. She’d felt it with the Harpies, every so often, after scoring a particularly tough goal or dodging a persistent bludger. She felt it, once in a blue moon, at the Prophet, when deadlines crushed in around her. But it was rare.

It was the kind of excitement that confirmed what Ginny already knew: she was in a rut. The days blended together. Her work at the Prophet bored her in ways it never had before. She was going through the motions, and it didn’t feel good, or bad, or anything but numb.

She felt older than she was, which made her feel vain and obstinately youthful. A woman her age wasn’t meant to be such a bore.

She loved Harry, of course, but as for that … other excitement, there was practically nothing. Not for lack of trying on her part, of course. Her sex drive hadn’t diminished much from her Hogwarts years. After the war, for a month or so, they’d shagged constantly, largely because they could, and because it was one thing that didn’t remind them of the war. When he entered auror training and she’d joined the Harpies, it was easy to justify masturbating each day, sometimes twice or three times, as a long-distance extension of that. They had sex when they reunited as a matter of course. But when they returned to one another a few years later, and as the children arrived, the sex had tapered. He went down on her every few weeks, as a gesture. Then every few months. Then it became annual, on her birthday. 

It wasn’t really a lack of drive on his part: The war, and before that being forced to grow up before he even left the cupboard, being so petrified of his magic before Hagrid arrived in his life, had changed him. She knew there were a lot of things he couldn’t do or bring himself to say. She loved him for it, and she cherished how he had allowed her in. She enjoyed caring for him when she could, and one of the ways she could was to let him decide whether to initiate sex, and to not feel burdensome to him for her own wants. He had trouble with pleasure, feeling guilty for being happy. He had trouble giving up control.

He knew she masturbated, of course, but his libido had never matched hers, even in the early days, and it always seemed a bit wrong to rub one out on the bed beside him, or to make herself moan in the shower while he shaved.

So, gradually, she began to limit her masturbation to times Harry wasn’t around. And when her busy job and the kids got in the way of that, she resorted to The Spell. That spell every witch at Hogwarts whispered to one another and giggled about and vocally said how wrong it was before — inevitably — they all tried it on themselves in a broom cupboard or a toilet cubicle or, if they already masturbated and could make themselves come quietly, behind the curtains of a four-poster bed.

Hermione abhorred it. She enjoyed giving herself orgasms, of course, and wasn’t shy about saying so, at least among her close female friends. Hell, in Ginny’s case, she enjoyed giving her closest female friend orgasms, too, even though those trysts were reserved for the summertime in some sort of unspoken agreement between them.

No, it wasn’t the orgasm part of The Orgasm Spell that disgusted her. It was the “Spell” of it.

“It’s unnatural!” she would say, though Hermione admitted she had tried it once. “Self-love is a beautiful part of being human. It isn’t meant to be magicked away like the mending or the washing up. Getting there is half the fun anyway, isn’t it?”

It was, Ginny reasoned, and while she had — like every witch — tried out the spell when she first learned of it, she had already been a practiced by-hand masturbator before trying it, and continued her habit unchanged afterward. 

The experience of a hurried wank in the girls’ showers, or a luxurious slow session of repeatedly taking herself to the edge, was electrifying. The touch of her fingers on her clitoral hood, or plunging inside her vagina, was transcendent. The orgasms were, of course, the pinnacle of that pleasure, a height of sensation that came in waves until she just couldn’t take it anymore. But even as she used The Spell regularly, Ginny knew it wasn’t the same; that orgasm alone was not as pleasurable without the experiences that caused it.

She felt almost ashamed, honestly, as she looked back. If she had told that stubborn, teenage ball of energy that she’d one day soothe her sexual needs with a sigh and a flick of a wand, as automatic as it was largely pleasureless, that ball of energy would have smacked her.

Sex wasn’t something she and Hermione had discussed in a while, not since crusty tissues began emanating from James’s room. But if they had, Ginny knew what Hermione would have said. She would have drawn — correctly — a bright line between her personal and professional rut and her resignation to The Spell. She would have been polite but firm that Ginny should ditch the wand and go back to using her hands, as they had once often done together, before they and her organs of sexual response atrophied. 

Ginny knew Hermione was right, of course, as she wriggled in her plain seat, the nature of her thoughts swirling in her head and bringing a palpable arousal to the area between her legs. She knew Hermione was right as she shifted out of her seatbelt, its warm metal buckle bumping against the gray plastic of her armrest.

She knew Hermione was right as she gingerly stepped over the sleeping brown-haired witch, a navy blue British Airways blanket slung over her body and a muggle paperback folded over her breast. 

She knew Hermione was right as she tiptoed past passengers in various states of sleep and sleepiness down the narrow aisle of the jetliner, and she knew Hermione was right as she clicked open the door to the tiny airplane lavatory. 

She knew Hermione was right as she closed and latched the door behind her, and she knew Hermione was right when she slid her wand out from her sleeve, where she’d stowed it at hand but out of sight.

She knew Hermione was right as she cast a preemptive silencing charm, and she knew Hermione was right as she leaned against the door of the lavatory, holding onto the sink with her free hand to stabilize herself against the light turbulence of the flight.

She knew Hermione was right as she pointed her wand at her crotch and cast The Spell, and while her mind went blank as the manufactured orgasm radiated through her, when her vaginal muscles ceased contracting and her moans gave way to heavy breaths of recovery, she knew Hermione was right again.

She knew Hermione was right as she caught her breath, and she knew Hermione was right as she cast a cleaning spell on her knickers, which made no distinction if the wetness came from an honest-to-goodness masturbation session or the artificial, instantaneous response of The Spell.

She knew Hermione was right as she left the lavatory and walked back to her seat, sated, and she knew Hermione was right as she stepped back over her sister-in-law to her seat.

She knew she felt powerless do anything about it, though. And she hoped that perhaps this expedition would jolt her out of her rut on its own. 

So she tried not to think of anything instead, and as the ocean flew by miles below her, she drifted off to sleep.


	2. Muggle Ingenuity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As they arrive in New York, Ginny ponders the subway, and Luna determines koi fish are telepathic. Up in their hotel room, Hermione finds a favorite muggle device she can't wait to use: a detachable showerhead. She and Luna enjoy it, but Ginny is still too uncomfortable with herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, I promise I didn't mean to post this so soon, but after the first chapter went up, I was just so inspired and managed to write a boatload of words I thought would take weeks.
> 
> So here you go! I hope you enjoy.

An odd thought crept into Ginny’s mind as she watched a sleek New York subway train clatter away towards its destination on the opposite track as she and Hermione, luggage in tow, awaited its Manhattan-bound companion:

Harry would love this.

She hadn’t meant to marry a trainspotter, but she did find endearing how Harry, when he could get a spare day in their early relationship or just for passing moments on a journey with the family, enjoyed watching Tube trains rumble underneath London.

In years past she had given thought to his affinity for the little metal commuter canisters, cramped and nondescript and devoid of any perceptible charm. Of course boys liked trains and planes and cars and all of that, and many a girl did too. But it was deeper, she reckoned. 

He liked the predictability of it all. The Tube, more than its counterparts above the surface of the Earth, ran to a hidden but all-encompassing schedule. It transected the city’s tunnels with the numbing yet reassuring regularity of a human heart, pumping blood at intervals ceaselessly through one’s arteries.

He liked the anonymity of it all. A million people, pressed against the curved panes of glass, who had no idea who he was. All his life he’d been told who he was, whether good or bad. First by the Dursleys: an unwanted afterthought born of hapless ne’erdowells, eating their food and breathing their air. From Hagrid: A magical person. From every face he met in Diagon Alley or on the Hogwarts Express, or even hers across the kitchen of the Burrow at first meeting: The boy who lived, the most famous wizard of his generation. From Sirius: A replacement for his father. From Dumbledore’s Army: A teacher, a leader, and a figure of hope. From Dumbledore himself, even from beyond the grave: The death-marked last hope of the Wizarding World.

On the Tube, no one said anything. If they did, it was to tell him to piss off, he was blocking the way.

And, Ginny supposed, he liked the overwhelming Muggle-ness of it all. The Wizarding World had embraced trains to a degree, but the Tube was a creation only a non-magical person could envision. An entire infrastructure, torturously built, rigorously run and painstakingly maintained, to accomplish a task they could do with a boot, or a fireplace, or the snap of a finger. 

Perhaps it wasn’t so devoid of charm after all.

No, thought Ginny. Sod that.

It may have been her jet lag talking, but if the Tube had even a shred of charm, the Subway had none of it.

The nap — and the other activity — on the flight had helped, but nothing could truly prepare one for the soul-crushing reality of the five-hour time change. It was early evening New York time when they landed, but in the British witches’ minds, it was entirely past their bedtimes. And they still had to cross the mysterious place Hermione called “Brooklyn.”

The plane had taken them to a great city of its own named Kennedy, Ginny had gathered. And a small, moving road had brought their luggage back to them from its belly.

An odd little train had carried them out of Kennedy, and now they were, Hermione assured her, some part of Brooklyn, which in turn was some part of New York. They had stood at a machine, where Hermione had used muggle money — and American muggle money at that! — to buy tickets, some of the budget allotted her by the Ministry for their sojourn. 

Hermione had given Ginny a ticket, shiny and yellow and made of a hard paper, and told her to watch closely as she’d slid it through a little slot in a machine of gates. Ginny had followed her lead, and gone through the turning gate, and now they were waiting on the Subway, which seemed familiar enough as it approached the platform with an electrical whine and a large letter ‘A’ on its front.

“This is us,” Hermione said.

Its doors whooshed open and Hermione followed a throng of fellow travelers inside, beckoning Ginny to follow her. Ginny did, her luggage in tow, tentatively stepping over the small gap between the platform and the traincar.

Hermione found a pair of seats, facing the middle of the carriage, and gestured for Ginny to sit down beside her. Ginny did, her luggage at her knees as she looked around the car at the cast of characters, some travelers coming from the airport, others seemingly on their way to or from work or school or out for the evening.

A voice told them where they were, and where they were going, but Ginny couldn’t make out much of anything except “Stand clear of the closing doors, please!”, a loud faceless exhortation made with none of the politeness the “please” connoted. 

The doors whooshed shut and Ginny fell sideways into Hermione as the train lurched forward with another electrical whine. Hermione laughed slightly as Ginny readjusted herself.

“Try not to look so fish-out-of-water, Gin,” she said warmly. “It’s only the subway.”

Only the subway indeed. 

This process repeated itself for what felt like eternity, though was in fact blissfully short compared to their airplane flight. The train slowed down, and screeched to a halt at each station. Doors whooshed open. People squeezed out, and people squeezed in. A voice rattled off what must have been names of streets and neighborhoods. They were advised to stand clear of closing doors, and the doors whooshed shut. The train lurched forward, and so on.

At length, the train made its way underground, and at length, Hermione nudged Ginny.

“Next one is us,” she said.

The station was busy when they squeezed out, luggage in tow. They stepped up a set of stairs with the throng, out through the turning gates again, and up some stairs again. This place, Manhattan, was entirely different from where they’d boarded. It was crowded and loud and the buildings were all, so it seemed, as tall as the tallest in central London. Cars whizzed by on the wide streets, and everywhere people darted from place to place in a cacophony of human movement.

There was no time to revel, though. Hermione took Ginny’s hand and led her down the sidewalk.

“Come on,” she said.

They toted their luggage a short while, and came up to the marquee of a hotel. 

“Home sweet home,” Hermione said with a smile, letting Ginny’s hand go and walking into the building, whose doors parted like magic as the pair approached to let them pass through. 

“Wait here for a minute,” she told Ginny. “I’ll go check in.”

Ginny looked around the hotel lobby. It was bright and clean and practically sparkly. She watched Hermione walk over to join a queue in front of a long desk where people in suits were waiting to serve the guests. She spied the golden doors of lifts — elevators, the Americans called them — with people bustling in and out as they went every which way. 

She looked at the bar, its entrance to one side, where several travelers were nursing drinks as a man in a suit behind it chose liquors from the lit shelf behind him to mix their concoctions. And in the middle of the cavernous room, she saw a fountain, which drained into a medium-sized pond around which many guests were gathered, their children kneeling down to watch the fish that lived inside.

There, she saw Luna.

The blonde witch was inamongst the children, poking every so often at the water. Ginny walked towards her. Hermione would find them.

A man in a suit made a b-line for Luna first. 

“Ma’am,” he said, politely yet firmly and perturbed. “Please don’t disturb the fish.”

Luna Lovegood, being Luna Lovegood, didn’t notice him, and continued her actions.

“Ma’am!” he doubled down. He turned to Ginny as she arrived. “Ma’am, does this young lady belong to you?”

Luna, now seemingly aware of their presence, perked up, stood and wheeled around, immediately taking Ginny into a bear hug.

“Oh Ginny it’s you, it’s so good to see you!” she said.

Ginny, after a moment of surprise, hugged Luna deeply.

“It’s good to see you too, Luna,” she responded. “It’s been far too long.”

“Ma’am?” the hotel worker repeated.

Ginny turned to him.

“Yes, she’s mine,” Ginny offered with her tongue in her cheek. “I’ll keep her in line, sir.”

The man nodded and turned around to walk away. Luna blew him a silent raspberry, before placing her arm around Ginny again, reaching back with her free hand to retrieve her canvas purse, and walking back towards the side of the lobby.

“The creatures in there are magnificent, Ginny,” Luna explained. “They’re called koi, and they have the most marvelous coloration. The muggles say they don’t do anything, but I’m certain they must have a telepathic connection with children. Ever since I arrived they’ve been attracting every young person who comes through.”

“And you,” Ginny offered.

“Well of course,” Luna answered nonplussed. “I was starting some research.”

Ginny laughed.

“I’ve missed you, Luna,” she said, taking the Lovegood witch into a hug once more. “I hope we didn’t keep you waiting too long.”

“Oh not at all,” Luna responded as the hug ended. “I’ve had a grand time studying the koi fish. I’ve missed you too, Gin. Sincerely.”

Luna initiated a third hug as Hermione arrived with their roomkeys. She joined the hug.

“Hermione!” Luna cheered, muffled by the group hug. They broke it. “It’s so good to see you! Have you seen the koi fish? There really must be a paper done on them. I haven’t the time, you see…”

“Luna Lovegood,” Hermione cut her off. “You are continuously a wonder. I’m so happy to see you, too.”

Hermione took Luna’s and Ginny’s hands on either side and squeezed them with her own.

“It’s good to be back together, the three of us I mean,” she said with heartfelt emotion as she let go and took hold of her luggage leading them toward the lifts. “Now come on, I’ve got our roomkeys. If there’s one things muggles do well, it’s hotels. I suppose when travel is such a hassle, a home-away-from-home takes on more value. Let’s see what we’ve got.”

* * *

“Oh yes! I was hoping they’d have one of these,” Ginny heard Hermione exclaim from the bathroom of their hotel chamber.

She was unpacking her clothes into the dresser across from one of the two twin beds in the room. Luna, meanwhile, who lived out of her magically extended purse, was lazing on the other bed, reading a booklet on the hotel’s amenities. (“I’ve ordered us cheeseburgers!” she had gleefully offered once she’d figured out the telephone enough to procure room service.)

Ginny walked over to the bathroom and met Hermione, who was standing in the walk-in shower behind its clear glass wall. Luna joined them in the bathroom doorway.

“One of what?” Ginny asked.

Hermione reached towards the control knobs of the shower, where a bulbous metal showerhead hung on a hook, connected to the plumbing with a long metal cord that hung down towards the floor.

“This, ladies, is a girl’s best friend,” Hermione offered as she picked up the showerhead. “Heaven in a cubicle. The muggle’s greatest contribution to indoor plumbing. This is a detachable showerhead.”

“OK?” Ginny said, unsure of Hermione’s enthusiasm. “I guess we’ll be extra clean.”

“Oh no, Ginny,” Hermione continued. “This baby does its best work in an entirely different field.”

Luna laughed as Hermione pointed the turned-off showerhead at the crotch of her slacks, the two other witches now aware what Hermione meant. Ginny felt uncomfortable.

“I actually learned how to masturbate with one of these back in the day,” Hermione explained. “Before I figured out how to use my fingers, I mean. My aunt had one at her house at the seaside that we used to go to. One summer it found its way to my clit and the rest is orgasmic history.”

Luna smiled, enjoying the story. Ginny found it arousing as well, and was surprised she had never actually heard about Hermione’s introduction to self-love before. But she still felt odd having these discussions as adults, and especially in light of her sexual stagnation.

“When we got home I had to figure out how to do it by hand, of course, but I loved visiting the seaside so I could have a special wank,” Hermione continued. “And this model is much nicer than my aunt’s. I know what I’m doing after dinner!”

Luna cheered like she was watching a bawdy panto. Ginny was aroused, but viscerally uncomfortable. She wanted to embrace the environment, which reminded her so much of the experiments she had shared with both girls in their teenage years, but to do so would have meant acknowledging just how far she had come from the horny, fearless girl who’d spent summer nights fingering Hermione and competed in orgasm races with Luna on the far shores of the Black Lake.

She left the bathroom and returned to her unpacking.

* * *

The cheeseburgers left the women's stomachs full as they prepared for bed. Ginny brushed her teeth in the bathroom, eyeing the shower and its apparently sensational showerhead in the mirror as she spat out the lather of toothpaste and detritus into the sink.

Ginny was dead tired, and even if she hadn’t been, she wasn’t comfortable enough to acknowledge her desire to give it a spin.

Instead, she pulled down her jeans and knickers, tossing them into the laundry basket under the vanity. She pulled off her blouse and reached back to unhook her bra, placing them both in the basket as well.

She eyed herself in the mirror then. Her body was still sexy, even if she had a hard time seeing it that way. Her hair was still thick and dark orange, though motherhood had necessitated lopping it back to her shoulders. Her face was tired, from the day and from the years, and her pale eyes didn’t have the same shine she remembered. 

Her collarbones were pronounced on her milky, freckled skin. Her breasts were larger now, a byproduct of motherhood, too, and her pale pink areolae radiated out farther than they did before she’d suckled children. They sagged slightly, the nipples at the center of those areolae pointing opposite directions to her sides. 

Her stomach was not paunchy but neither did it boast the tone she had maintained during her Quidditch career. 

Her pubic bush was thick and dark orange as well, entirely unkempt and a far cry from the entirely bald style she’d once kept and even the neatly trimmed triangle that had given way to.

Had she been able to see her vulva, she would have seen that it was different as well, her outer lips and clitoris more apparent, if not larger, than they had once been, the skin of her lips and her hood and her other folds stretchier and less elastic as well.

Below her vulva, the countertop blocked her view.

Ginny sighed and unfolded the pyjamas she’d brought in with her. She pulled the comfy flannel pants, patterned with Holyhead Harpies mascots that flew in little circles, onto her legs and over her ginger bush.

She pulled a Harpies-branded white T-shirt over her head as well, her breasts lifting slightly as she raised her arms to pull them through the arm holes and her hair tousling as she pulled her head through its neck.

She took a fleeting look at herself again and opened the bathroom door, padding back into the bedroom and over to the twin bed, closer of the two to the windows that looked out on a place Hermione called Midtown, that she and her sister-in-law were to share.

Hermione was sitting up, legs under the covers, reading. Luna was laying on her stomach on the other bed, scribbling — no doubt about telepathic koi fish — into a leatherbound notebook.

Hermione turned to Ginny as she approached their bed.

“No shower?” she asked.

“I’m too tired,” Ginny answered, sitting beside Hermione atop the covers. “I will in the morning.”

“All right,” Hermione said, closing her book and standing up from the bed. She walked towards the foot of it, where her luggage lay open, unzipping her slacks and pulling them down as she did. “I can’t wait that long to take the showerhead for a spin. I haven’t used one in ages.”

Hermione stepped out of her slacks and placed them in her empty suitcase, then pulled down and stepped out of her knickers. Luna didn’t look up from her notebook. Ginny turned away towards the window, but watched Hermione’s reflection in the dark glass.

Hermione’s legs were as long as they ever had been, her bottom as round and inviting as Ginny remembered. As Hermione turned slightly, Ginny caught the reflection of her bush, as thick and brown as ever. Hermione had never had an inclination to do anything to her pubic hair at Hogwarts, and it seemed she still didn’t.

She saw Hermione’s reflection unbutton her white shirt and remove it, then unhook her bra and take it off as well. She watched Hermione’s reflection shake out the bushy locks of hair on her head. She watched the reflection Hermione’s breasts, larger than Ginny remembered them, their medium-brown nipples hardening on contact with the cool hotel air, jiggle as she did.

She watched Hermione’s hand reach down and stroke in one long move her vulva, readying it for action.

“Back in a jiffy,” Hermione said, practically prancing into the bathroom and not bothering to close the door.

Hermione had never been concerned about, or at least had been oblivious to, letting others, at least other women, see her body. Perhaps there was a streak of exhibitionism, but it was more largely a common-sense lack of self-consciousness. Every girl in Gryffindor had seen Hermione saunter to the showers, her bush the stuff of legends, even if only a select few like Ginny had gotten the opportunity to pleasure the sensitive pink flesh that lay beneath.

Ginny heard the shower spring to life, and the loud droplets of water that occur when someone places their hand in its stream to test the temperature. At length, the water quited as Hermione’s body came between it and the echoing floor and walls of the walk-in shower.

Within moments, the water quieted again as Hermione, so Ginny imagined, split the stream to send much of it through the detachable head. She heard its metal cord zip against itself as Hermione positioned it. And she heard the water quiet again as Hermione dampened its noise against her most sensitive area.

“Oh fuck!” she heard Hermione moan loudly from the shower stall, as the water stimulated her, her pleasurable exhortation reverberating in the space.

Ginny was aroused but mortified. She reached over and picked up the television remote, a contraption her father and Harry had made her slightly aware of. She clicked the screen on and raised the volume to drown out Hermione’s moans as she watched a woman in a dress talk about a fire that had occurred that morning. She slunk under the covers as she tried to hide herself.

The television drew Luna’s attention, and she briefly looked up at it, then over to Ginny, before returning to her work.

As the minutes passed, Hermione’s moans became louder, their noise overtopping the television and growing to a crescendo as she orgasmed in the shower stall. The particular mechanics of the water were impossible to suss out over the next few minutes as Ginny watched commercials for all sorts of products and Hermione proceeded to wash herself.

At length, the water turned off. After a while, Ginny heard the sink, and the sound of Hermione brushing her teeth. She turned to look as the woman arrived from around the corner, toothbrush circling in her mouth and a pink flush enveloping her chest.

“Vat velt so kud,” Hermione managed to intone past the toothbrush. “I kotta ket Won to vuy ush vun. Vuck.”

Hermione watched the television for a moment then returned to the bathroom to spit.

After another minute or so, Ginny heard the toilet flush, then Hermione turned the corner again and came to join her. She closed the curtains, then turned to sit down, but stopped just short of the bed.

“Oh,” Hermione said. Ginny looked up at her, trying to keep her focus on her face. “I’m used to sleeping naked. Do you mind if I…?”

Ginny did mind, for stupid self-conscious reasons she hated herself for concocting. But she wouldn’t let Hermione see that. Besides, what logic was there. They were all women, and Hermione was a woman Ginny had had sex with. And she should have remembered. Hermione had slept nude, or nearly nude, since Ginny had known her. They had even slept nude together at the Burrow, even if Ginny still preferred pyjamas.

“Go ahead,” Ginny said, feigning nonchalance.

“Cool, thanks,” Hermione said as she joined Ginny under the covers. “Just like old times.”

Ginny could have sworn Hermione winked. 

Wordlessly, Luna closed her notebook and left for the bathroom, shoving it in her bag as she took it with her. Ginny was curious about the blonde’s body, of course. But she was also glad not to have to see another nude body quite yet.

“What’s this?” Hermione asked, gesturing at the television.

“Something called ‘New York One’,” Ginny responded. 

“Fascinating,” Hermione said. 

They watched the newscast for some time, Ginny taking particular interest in the sports segment and its odd reports on something called baseball. Ginny took solace also in the fact that she heard no such sounds from the bathroom as Luna showered, besides the indiscernible sounds of the water. It was nice to have some pressure of of her where trying out showerhead masturbation was concerned.

Ginny’s solace was dashed when, at length, Luna returned, in a sheer nightdress that revealed her entire body flushed in a glowing post-orgasmic pale rose.

“You’re right, Hermione,” Luna said with the matter-of-factness that only a scientist can muster and that only Luna Lovegood could apply to this situation. “The orgasm was quite satisfying.”

Hermione laughed.

“I know, right?” she responded. “That’s muggle ingenuity: Making you cum in new and exciting ways.”

Luna turned off the light and lay down in her bed. 

“Indeed,” she said. “G’night, ‘Mione.”

“Good night, Luna,” Hermione responded.

“G’night, Gin,” Luna said.

“G’night,” Ginny responded. She flicked off the television, the absence of its blue-toned glow leaving the room dark. “Sleep well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, seriously, it might be a wait. But I said that last time, so if the mood strikes me, who knows, the next chapter might be up sooner than I think.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed -- I love your reviews. This is going to be slow to complete, but I have the whole story mapped out in my head, so hopefully we'll get there in the end. It will also heat up, sexually speaking, in subsequent chapters. Also, I haven't abandoned my other HP fic, which is set in a different universe to this one, so look out for updates there, as well as non-HP smutty oneshots I have in progress. I'm really excited about this work, so I hope you are too.


End file.
